The Knight of Sweetsong
by TheKulthanOrder
Summary: Jon has been sent south with the basics of a hedge knight and a pouch of gold by his father. Now he will make a name for himself as the Knight of Sweetsong. *DISCONTINUED FOR THE TIME BEING*
1. The Tourney at Ashford

It had been a few months since he had left Winterfell to head south. His father had given him the basics of a hedge 'knight' though there were few knights in the north. He had been given, a shield, a bastard sword to the amusement of Theon, a horse, and a pouch of gold stags. Jon had used the rest to buy some basic things for his travels through the hedges. Now Jon was heading to Ashford for a tourney. Jon was placing the pieces of rabbit into the broth when the hedge knights approached. The stout one with bronze colored armor raised his hand in greeting and called out, "Hail! Are you heading to the tourney in Ashford as well?" Jon looked up from his stirring and nodded warily. The hedge knight grinned and beckoned his tall, lanky companion forward. "Do you mind if we share a meal with you? I am Darren the Bronze and this is my companion, Ser Bryen." Jon looked at the other one, who looked to be quite wary. Jon gave one more fleeting glance and then beckoned the two forward. The stout one grinned and took his horse forth to the tree where Jon's destrier was tied. The second one gave him a look of interest and then nudged his cream colored palfrey forward. The stout one took a seat on the log nearby and cleared his throat. Jon looked up. "What's your name, then?" Jon paused for a moment, thinking of a good name. After a few moments, he responded, "I am the Knight of Sweetsong." In that time the lanky one had taken a seat and began to speak. "Knight of Sweetsong, eh? Never heard of you before." Jon nodded his head in agreement. "I have not participated in many tourneys." The lanky one seemed still curious, but accepted the answer alongside a ladleful of stew into his bowl.=. The stout one grinned and beckoned for a ladleful as well. "Well, ah, Ser Jon, i will be quite glad to see you on the field. Perhaps we will clash lances upon one another." Jon nodded his head and allowed a smile to creep across his face as the stout fellow began to tell tales of the tourney at Fairmarket. _Yes, this will be an interesting ordeal._


	2. The Two Tilts

Jon was walking through the tourney grounds at Ashford, enjoying the sights before the tilts. It was when the herald's horn called out that his heartbeat quickened. _Calm your nerves, Jon. If you miss and get hit, your career will be over._ He took a deep breath and saddled his charger, inspecting his armor to make sure it was on properly.

Jon was waiting, when the herald called out, "Ser Addam Wessley against The Knight of Sweetsong," Jon didn't wait for the man to finish listing off the other names. He placed his helm upon his head, brandishing his shield quite proudly. The sigil was a golden harp on a white and dark green chequy. Taking one last deep breath, Jon gave his destrier a tap on the ribs with his stirrups, ushering him forward to the tilt.

Everything seemed to be moving as slow as molasses, Jon noted, as he watched the lance of his opponent slowly make its way towards his chest. Jon reacted as quick as he could, shifting in his saddle to dodge the lance while maneuvering his lance to the left, aiming at the center of the knight's chest. Jon was moving like molasses as well, but he kept steady and did not balk. When the lance missed by a hand's breadth while his struck true, he could not help but grin.

The roar of the crowd almost drowned out the herald, but he shouted louder. "The Knight of Sweetsong is the victor of this tilt," he cried out into the clamor. One of the fair ladies in their seating area had offered Jon her favor, and he took it and place it upon his lance. The herald then waited and began calling out the names of the next match.

Jon had been sitting upon his horse, adjusting slightly, when the herald cried his title once more. "The Knight of Sweetsong versus Ser Bryen!" Jon sat for a moment before he shook his head clear of the thoughts racing through his mind and spurred his mount to the tilt, where he readied his lance once more, the daisy upon his lapel giving him a little more courage.

Jon was moving faster this time it seemed. He saw the lance coming and moved in his saddle, almost unbalancing him - though he still managed to hit his lance upon Ser Bryens shield, smashing the lance to splinters against it. Cursing quietly, Jon grabbed the lance offered to him by the squire and readied himself. When he spurred himself forward, he felt a sense of confidence in himself as he maneuvered himself and his lance once more. This time, the lance hit Ser Bryen in the shoulder, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall.

Jon breathed heavily as he heard the dull roar of the crowd. His helm was starting to block out sounds, or perhaps it was some sweat blocking the way. In either happenstance, he was grinning from ear to ear as the day of jousting ended.

Later that night, Jon came to the two knights he had unhorse to collect ransom or their armor and horse. Ser Addam paid up with two gold dragons, while Ser Bryen swore and handed over his armor and horse. While Jon was leaving the tent, he heard Ser Bryen curse him under his breath.


	3. Dreams and Tilts

Chapter 3

That night, Jon dreamt. He dreamt of a dragon and a pack of wolves, howling at the moon. He dreamt of a fire in the dark, with pale blue eyes luminescent in the dark. He dreamt of a wedding, with a crowd around something, with the cries of a woman in the background. But most of all, he dreamt of the crypts of Winterfell, though he had left Winterfell five moons before.

When Jon awoke, it was shortly after dawn. He got up groggily and donned his armor, preparing for a few practices runs with his horse before the match. It was in the midst of this when the crowd began to gather at the tourney field, and when Jon made his way to the tourney grounds. He was called against a lord this time. Jon prepared his horse for the tilt.

Jon made sure his breathing was steady. The tilt began, and Jon spurred his destrier quickly. Time slowed, and Jon's instincts kicked in, guiding his lance with precision to the lord's breastplate while nimbly dodging the incoming lance. The lord went flying cleanly from his saddle, landing on the ground with an audible grunt. _That was not normal; I've barely practiced jousting and I already hit him like a master._

The crowd cheered loudly, and the herald bellowed out the next list. Jon decided to pay attention to the other lords from now on, as there were like to be some important lords here. But he could barely recall the banners of most of the houses, his adrenaline still pumping. He spotted a Fossoway banner and a Florent banner, but he stopped paying attention to that when the list ended with one of the men being caught underneath his horse, crippling him.

After what seemed like an hour, the blood had been cleaned and the man carried off to be tended to by a maester. In the meantime, Jon had tilted against four other lords, though the same thing happened each time, his instincts kicking in and guiding him to do things. He had at least earned the adoration of quite a few of the maidens and ladies in the crowds, as he had not been hit once.

Jon was quite glad to lay himself once more beneath the great oaken tree he had slept under the night before. The thing had to have been at least a hundred years old, and the roots created a divet in the ground where he could lay his blankets and sling his gear from a branch in the tree. Jon laid himself to rest that night, only the sound of an owl's hoot to accompany his breathing.


	4. The Wolf and the Rose

Chapter 4

Jon was nibbling away at some salt pork and bread for breakfast. Jon swept the crumbs from his tunic and put on his armor, making his way to the tourney grounds. The herald had disappeared, replaced with a taller one. This one began to list the final bout. "Loras Tyrell versus the Knight of Sweetsong!" The crowd cheered quite loudly.

When he had mounted his destrier, he noted the Flower Knight's armor. Gold ornate armor with a cloak of roses, an ornate golden helm with a rose crown on top. He carried his sister Margaery's favor, while Jon carried Desmera Redwyne, a fair maid of four and ten,'s favor. He was breathing heavily, nervous. Loras Tyrell was famed for being the greatest jouster of his generation.

When his destrier began to gallop, things slowed down. Lors brought down his lance, and, in anticipation of Jon's next move, begin to move his lance to the expected position of Jon. But Jon instead began to duck while simultaneously keeping his lance steady.

The resounding crack and explosion of cheering caused Jon to assume he'd been knocked from his saddle. But when he realized he was still astride his horse and Ser Loras was lying on the ground. Jon couldn't believe it. His instincts had won him against Ser Loras.

When Jon collected the prize and then the ransom from Ser loras eyed him with jealousy. "You, how could a hedge knight beat me? Tell me, are you Ser jaime in disguise? No, you're not broad enough to be him. Tell me, who are you? I would like to know the name of the man who beat me so resoundingly. But Jon just shook his head politely, grabbed the ransom, and turned to leave when Loras grabbed his shoulder and moved to remove his helm. Jon moved to slowly, and the helm came off. "Who in the seven hells are you?" He queried, staring him down. Jon snatched up his helmet and said, "I am no one you need to know, ser." With that remark, Jon swiftly left and returned to his hideout to gather his belongings.

Jon was near the tree by the road, putting his sacks away on his pale palfrey when he noticed two Tyrell guardsmen moving along the road. One of them spat on the road and remarked, "I don' even know why Loras is having us search for this mystery knight. Most times they just disappear with the earnings." The other one stopped and eyed Jon, then the shield. Jon had only moments to react, so he swiftly took out the bastard sword and parried the spearman's attack instinctively. Then he smashed the pommel on the temple of the men and swiftly turned to meet the shortsword with a swift riposte and chop at the man's side, causing a dent and a curse before Jon hit him deftly with his fist, tripping the man when he stumbled back and kicking him in the side of the head. Both men stayed unconscious for a few minutes, and by the time they awoke, Jon had long since ridden off to the next tourney.


	5. The Tourney at King's Landing

Chapter 5

The morning was warm when Ned got up from his furs, placing them back gently so as not to disturb his lady wife. He donned his doublet and woolen pants, then making was ways down the warm halls of Winterfell to the Maester's tower to read the letters that had come in during the night.

The first letter was one requesting some guardsmen to rid a nearby village of outlaws. Ned waxed with with his seal and placed it aside. The next was the Night's Watch requesting men. Another stamp of his seal. The third and final was a letter about 'The Knight of Sweetsong' and the search for this fellow by Loras Tyrell. Ned eyed it suspiciously. He had no reason to receive this letter; Ashford was a thousand leagues south. He placed it in a good spot for rereading.

By now the sounds of the cooks preparing food for the break fast and Robb and Theon practicing in the yard could be heard. Robb had been lonely without Jon to accompany him, he knew. But Jon was capable, and if his heritage bore true, he would prove a fine knight. Ned sat on the balcony above the yard, reminiscing about the night.

 _It had been a few moons ago when Jon and Robb had sparred and Jon had bruised Robb on accident. Lady Catelyn had been so furious that she banished him south. Ned could not stop her from this no matter how much he pleaded, so he gave Jon a fine sword made by Mikken, a good horse, and some armor._

 _That had been the last time they had seen Jon. He had left with a melancholic look on his face and Robb had been greatly saddened, thought it was Arya who was devastated. She had sobbed and become wroth, throwing her plate at a wall to little effect._

But he was interrupted by another important letter.

He had awoken on the side of the road and continued his way northeast to King's Landing for a tourney in honor of something or other. He made his way swiftly up the road, and with little to do, he thought about the past - his friends, his family, Robb and Bran and of course Arya. He thought of his knight name.

 _In truth he had chosen it because whenever he worked up the courage to sing most people called it quite beautiful, though Theon called him a 'fair maiden' and Jon had challenged him to the yard._

It had been a day and a half by his reckoning when the fat boy had come running up to him, out of breath. "Please, ser. Stop. I want… I want to speak to you." Jon turned and looked ath the boy. He stopped the destrier and looked at him. "Well, what is it?" The fellow was shaking a bit, so Jon took off his helm. The fellow looked at him and then said, "My father sent me here to ask you if I could squire for you. The only way I could be turned into an actual man, he said. I'm Sam Tarly, by the way." Jon looked at him and, with a gentle shrug, nodded his head. The fellow lit up with joy and nodded his head.

It had been a month since he started teaching Sam to squire for him when they finally reached King's Landing for the tourney. Jon had been preparing for the lists, and getting mentally ready to face up once more with the Tyrells. Word had spread of the Knight of Sweetsong and his new squire, Sam the Succulent.

The Tourney had begun when Jon was getting on his horse for his first list when he saw his father and sisters on the stands. Jon paled a bit but shook his head. Sansa called out to him, referring to him as a gallant knight and offering her favor. Jon could see the humor in it and let her place her favor on the end of his lance, and when she did he placed it upon the crown of his helm. He shifted slightly and returned to the ranks, preparing to list against the hedge knight.

He became used to the slowing down of time after a while and continued to win using shifting in his seat and hitting him square in the chest with a crack. The crowd whooped and cheered and Sansa smiled joyously.

The next four tilts, like the previous, had happened the same. However, the fifth tilt was against The Mountain - the final tilt of the day. He was ready, and he knew if this went wrong he would die, so he called for a longer lance. Instinct versus strength, this match would be. When the match began, he made sure his horse was sprinting as fast as possible. He watched as Gregor began to move the lance upwards towards his throat. Ducking while keeping his lance trained, he smashed the Mountain down, the man losing his balance until he fell off his horse and began to swear. He picked up a sword and charged at Jon, who was hopping down from his horse with a sword in hand. He dodged Gregor's first blow, and instinct coming in, he stabbed up into his right armpit, the blade poked out of his shoulder. He raved and swore while Jon pulled out his sword, rolling forward to dodge the attack and impaling Gregor on his sword, his neck opening with a spurt of blood.


	6. A Dance of Roses and Dragons

Chapter 6

Jon looked to the king, waiting. The king frowned and stared him down for a moment, then he guffawed. "The Mountain brought down by a mystery knight! This is a tourney to remember!" He roared, though Sansa looked shocked and horrified. His father looked grimly down and shook his head.

The next morning was the final tilt, between he, the now well known Knight of Sweetsong and the Rose Knight, Loras. The King himself watched with great interest - this match would decide who was the best. The two knights prepared themselves, the Knight of roses scowling before he flipped his visor down once more.

Jon spurred his horse forward, couching his lance and pulling up his shield. Time slowed once more as he aimed his lance at Loras' chest, and watching the Rose Knight's lance move towards him. Pulling his shield up instinctively in a fashion where his opponent's lance would glance off. The lance had little time to move before Loras was flung heavily from his seat,landing with an audible 'oomph' and a grunt. _It is done. I have won._

The King's roaring laughter startled him. "Ser, you have done well. Remove that helm o' yers and ask me any boon, and I will grant it. King's honor," With that last bit he pounded his chest. And so, Jon removed his helmet. Sansa gasped in shock, Arya shrieked happily, and his father just looked him in his eyes and nodded in approval. Jon stared the king in the eye and then looked to his father.

"My boon… Is to know who my mother is, Father." The king grunted and looked at Ned. "Well, I'll leave that to you, Ned." He nodded his head and then looked to the prizemaster, nodding his head towards Jon. The fellow presented him with a lagre sack of golden dragons and nodded his head. Loras, in the meantime, was furious. "I lost to a bastard son of a Northern lord!? Impossible! I doubt he's ever even had proper jousting training." Jon just shrugged his shoulders and turned to Sam, who had been watching with surprise. "Fetch me a skin of water, Sam. I'm thirsty." Sam closed his mouth, opened it once more, and closed it again before going to fetch a waterskin.

That night, Jon met with his father in the Godswood of the Keep to speak to him. "Jon, your mother... " He looked around to make sure no one was listening, but to make sure he quited his voice. "Jon, your mother was your aunt, Lyanna. But this was no relationship of incest… I am not your father, Jon. I am your uncle. Your real father was Rhaegar Targaryen. It's why you have such prowess with a sword or lance. He was the finest jouster and swordsman, even comparable to Arthur Dayne. You cannot tell this to anyone, however. If the king finds out, he'll have your head."

That night, when Jon was preparing for bed in the honorary guest's room he'd been granted by the king, Varys seemed to materialize out of nowhere. "Jon Snow… It is good to see you. I have heard word of your parentage." He giggled in a strange fashion and continued. "Jon Targaryen. You were right under my nose, and I didn't even see it. I've been waiting for this. Please, follow me." Jon went against his senses and did so.

"Jon, I want what is best for this continent. I want what is best for the realm. What we need is a Targaryen. You don't have the madness in you, thankfully. I see greatness in you, Jon, but if I am going to get you on the throne, I am going to need your cooperation. Are you willing to give that to me, Jon?" Jon thought. Long and hard. He thought of the Iron Throne. He thought of Winterfell. He thought of his family, of Mikken, of Farlen the hound's man. "I… I accept, Lord Varys." The eunuch turned to him and giggled "You have much to learn, Jon. I am no lord." With that, he blew out the candle lighting their faces and giggled.


	7. Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name

Chapter 7

By Jon's reckoning, little had happened of grand importance. Besides Arya begging him to teach her to use a sword and Jeyne giving him sideways glances, things stayed the same. He visited the god's wood, he practiced with sword, and he watched Arya chase cats. Nothing with Varys, and at times he wondered if he should have declined the offer.

Then it happened. Barristan Selmy came to watch him practice. Jon tried to keep himself steeled - he would need it when faring against the three men at arms - but he could not. He kept throwing glances at the skilled swordsman, one of the last of the Kingsguard of the glory days. Barristan just watched with satisfaction as Jon still beat the three men at-arms soundly, before stepping up.

"Jon Snow. You have been claimed as an excellent swordsman, and from what I have seen you are… quite skilled. Put up your sword, ser. I would like to practice against you. It took all jon had not to let himself gape at the man, instead focusing on picking up his sword and getting into his stance.

His instincts were his saving grace here. He felt like he could see the moves before they happened, a parry here, a riposte there, dodging and rolling. He fared quite well, almost hitting the swordsman a few times. The final strike was a feint, and he managed to tap Barristan on the side. The old man smirked and nodded his head in approval, before beckoning him to follow.

"Varys was right. I was not certain until I saw you fight. You are much like your father." The old man looked at him with intrigue, and Jon's mind was racing. "What does this mean for me, Ser Barristan?" He asked, looking at the aging knight. "Follow me into here, Jon." The knight beckoned him into a room and then checked the hallway.

"I have served the royal family for many a year. I was greatly saddened when Rhaegar perished on the Trident. I had failed him, but I will not fail you. If you will have me when you are… When you are king, I will loyally serve on the Kingsguard, Jon Targaryen." Jon gaped at him, but quickly nodded his head.

A month had passed, and Jon had been training with the Lord Commander quite often. His days had quickly passed, with him training Sam or training with the Bold Knight. He had also been practicing with the lance. But most of all, Jon had been reading about King's Landing, under the guise of learning the history of the city.

One dreary night, Varys had come into Jon's chambers. "Jon, you must come with me. It is not safe - your uncle tried to take control for Stannis and has been arrested, and the gold cloaks are slaughtering Stark men." Jon gaped at him in shock and shook Sam awake. "Come with me, Sam. We need to go with Varys." Sam groaned but obliged, coming with them.

A few days had passed while they waited, and Sam was growing bored. "There's nothing to do but spar with you, and that's getting uninteresting. What can w-" Sam was interrupted by Varys entering the chamber with a sly smile on his face. "I bribed the Gold Cloaks, Jon Targaryen. The city is now yours, most of the pretenders dead, though Stannis is preparing for war against you. Renly is dead, killed in the commotion." Jon looked at him grimly before nodding his head to Sam, as if to say, 'there's what we can do'


	8. The Battle of the Blackwater Anew

Chapter 8

Ruling was not as easy as he had thought. Nothing seemed as simple as he thought, though. Robb had bent the knee to him willingly, and Hoster a little less willingly. The Vale was undecided as of yet, Dorne had submitted, quite a few stormlords had sworn to Stannis. The Westerlands had raised their bannermen for Tommen, who had escaped. The Reach was also undecided, though they would side with him if he married Margaery, which he had accepted with reluctance. The war would be swift with only two enemies.

Jon was watching Stannis make his assault from the walls, garbed in black plate with a red dragon helmet upon his head. He turned to the catapult engineers and gave them the signal. Nodding and grinning, they placed the wildfire pots onto the catapults and launched them. The assaulting men were terrified when suddenly hundreds of men were incinerated and others burning profusely. He grinned and held up his new bastard sword for all his men to see as he gave a speech. "These men are brave men, but they're on the wrong side!" His insult worked, and quite a few men laughed. The wildfire catapults launched once more, incinerating a few hundred more men. The constant thrum of crossbows or longbows was reassuring to hear, as the many men at arms down below were dying by the hundreds. The only thorn in his side was that they still held naval superiority. _I should've built a bigger fleet._ The men at arms were deploying shields with wet leather hides on them now, many and more of them. They hid behind them while they wheeled up, then they would poke out their crossbows and fire. Unfortunately for them, they were packed a little too close, a remedy wildfire could assist with. The men at arms still kept swarming, however - reaching closer and closer to the walls with the ladders, quite a few making it to the walls now.

The horn came as a relief, then. In the distance, he saw a massive cavalry force with Tyrell, Tully, and Stark banners flying true. The men at arms only had a few moments to begin to break and flee before the massive wave of cavalry smashed them to pieces.

"I must thank you for that save. I was actually starting to fear they might enter the city, t'be true." Jon grinned at Robb and clasped his shoulder. "Cousin. Last I saw you, I was but a lowly bastard. Now I'm king. Strange, isn't it?" Robb grinned and clasped him back, pulling him into a hug. "I thought the messenger who said Jon was now King was mad. Glad I was wrong."

Jon turned to Edmure and bowed his head to him. "Hello, Edmure. I am glad you have ridden with my cousin." Edmure stiffened a little. "It was my duty to my nephew." Jon shrugged at that and turned to Garlan Tyrell, who had lead the vanguard. "Garlan. I am glad for your help. The marriage to your sister will be soon, I promise." Garlan nodded his head at him respectfully. "Now then," Jon said with a grin, "It's time for me to choose my small council."

"Robb and Garlan, I want you two as my commanders when I retake the west. Edmure, I want you as my master of laws. The master of whispers will be Varys, and my Master of Coin will be chosen at a later hand. Garlan, you will be my Master of Arms, and Robb, if you will have it, you will be my King's Hand." Robb grinned at him fully and nodded his head. "I accept."


	9. The Battle of the Golden Tooth

Jon

Jon was speaking with his war council in the pavilion when the squire entered, panting heavily. "Your Grace, my apologies, but… The Lannister army has been sighted on the horizon!" Jon turned to his council of Brynden, Robb, and Randyll. "It's time for battle, then. You know your positions." They all nodded and filed out. _Damn. They got through the sentinels I placed at the Golden Tooth. Well, at least we have the position on the hill._ Jon thought, as he pulled on hlis gloves, strapped on his sword belt, and placed his dragon helm upon his head.

Jon was astride a barded destrier bearing the black and red of House Targaryen, a match for his armor. He was commanding the center, watching Robb smashing through the Lannister vanguard and then moving swiftly to attack the left. Jon turned to Sam, who was by his side, shaking much less than the last battle he had faced. "Sam, pass me the horn." Sam nodded his head and produced the horn. Jon put it to his lips and blew. _Ahooooooo, Ahooooo, Ahoooooooo_ , the signal for the reserve cavalry and infantry to charge, leaving the archers on the hill with a guard of pikemen.

The sun was finally out, gleaming upon the bloody battlefield. Jon could only hear the scream of men, the clacking of hooves on the stones of the hill and the clashing of steel. As he neared the line of heavy infantry, he couched his lance in the last few moments, impaling a man at arms upon his lance with a great clatter before dropping the remains and pulling out his pale longsword with rubies inlaid into the hilt, giving it a good hard swing right into the chest of a peasant with a spear, cleaving him clean in two.

Jon finally spotted Addam Marbrand and Lancel Lannister, their guards trying to stave off the flow of heavy infantry. Spurring his horse, he pulled up his shield a bit and began to gallop forward, readying his sword before the guards could turn to attack. Addam spotted him first just before he took a sword into his throat. He was knocked clean off his horse and slid off the sword, a gurgle escaping his lips before he clacked to the ground. Lancel was shocked, but he wheeled his horse around in time to see Jon making a return run.

One of the guards tried to turn and attack him and was almost immediately speared through the throat, shock splaying on his face. Jon was back to eyeing Lancel. He slowed a bit when he saw him put his shield up. _Hmmm…_ Jon thought for a moment, before producing a dagger and stabbing at his foe's horses eye. Lancel only had a moment before his horse screamed and fell of onto his side, smashing Lancel's leg in the process. Jon had only a moment to turn his attention to the peasant with a spear who was sprinting at him. An instant later, an arrow volley fell down upon the enemies in the area, killing quite a few and a couple of arrows pinging off his horses armor.

Things were starting to look better and better, as the left was driven off and Robb wheeled his cavalry into the center where Jon was. The right was starting to falter and with the deaths of their commanders they were confused and without large scale orders, many began to rout. Jon returned to his lines, finally realizing he hadn't seen Sam in a while. After a time he spotted the fat boy behind the lines, his horse clearly killed by a spear. Jon nodded his head at that. Things were finishing up by now, the Lannister army that had numbered perhaps thirty thousand men that morning now only numbering six thousand men, by his reckoning. The rout continued.

Daenerys

Khal Drogo was dead, burning in the pyre. Her sun and stars had been killed by the witch, who was burning now in the fire. The three dragon eggs began to crack, so Daenerys walked into the flame. She heard Jorah cry out in horror, but she only smiled wanly and continued. She was not burning, she realized. Her hair and dress had burnt off entirely, but her skin was fine. She watched the dragon eggs crack entirely, and three dragons emerged, the first a black scaled one, the second a green scaled, and the third was orange scaled. She walked out with the three tiny dragons upon her shoulders, and the Dothraki _khas_ kneeled before her, declaring themselves her bloodriders.

After two months of sweltering heat, and the people of her small khalasar dying, they reached Qarth. In that time, she had chosen to name her dragons Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. The people of Qarth had been awed by her dragons, and she had been staying in the merchant Xaro Xhoan Daxos' manse as a guest. It was there she had learned that the Usurper had died and most of his dogs were dead as well, save for the Lion. But the most interesting news she learned was that a Targaryen was upon the throne. Jon Targaryen, they called him. He was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. It was when she heard this that she decided she must head west, no longer an exile. So she spent what little gold she had left to buy passage back to Westeros on the newly named _Dragon's Tail_ , along with her bloodriders and her handmaids.

Tyrion

Tyrion was quite surprised when he reached civilized lands once more and found that there was a new King upon the throne and he was not, in fact, Joffrey. In fact, he had no prior knowledge of this boy, to be true. He seemed to be wise enough, he reckoned, and he had the fealty of the Riverlands, the North, most of the Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne behind him, with only the Westerlands to fight him and the Vale was quite neutral as of yet. It made no matter, however. If his father died, which was quite likely, he would be the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. He would swear fealty to this young king willingly, not seeing the point in losing his head, or worse, his cock, in a foolish war.

He found himself at the inn of the Crossroads once more, though this time the innkeep was gone, levied along with quite a few others for the war. Tyrion turned to Bronn. "Bronn, where do you think we should go, hmm?" Bronn shrugged his shoulders and spat on the ground. "I don' fucking care. You're the one paying me to cut throats, dwarf." Tyrion nodded his head and considered it. Perhaps if he went to King's Landing and swore fealty, he could save his head and perhaps his family's ancestral home of Casterly Rock. This new king wasn't said to be cruel, and quite a few of the smallfolk remaining did like him. _Perhaps this won't be all that bad,_ he mused silently.

Bran

"Hodor!" Hodor cried, grinning quite happily when Bran called him to take him to the hall. His brother had gone off to get Father back and instead was now fighting for their brother - no, cousin, Jon. Bran had found out their Father had been killed by a lannister guardsman during the battle for the throne. But Jon was on the throne, and that was good. His mother had been shocked to find out Jon hadn't been a bastard at all and had been very demure in the past few weeks. Bran was working his way through books with little else to do, and he like to hear Old Nan's tales.

Hodor lifted him up and put him into the basket, ducking under the doorway and heading off to the hall. He set him down upon the too big throne and let out another Hodor, before meandering off to the kitchens to break his fast. Bran was brought two boiled eggs and a hollowed out loaf of bread with butter and shredded cheese inside. He nibbled away before calling for Maester Luwin. The older man appeared after a time and asked, "What is it, young Lord Stark?" Bran turned his head towards the old maester and said, "I think I'll hold court today. Please call forth the petitioner's." Maester Luwin nodded and walked away.

He had finished his meal and cleaned himself off before being brought into the main hall and being set upon the throne. The petitioner's made their way forth to request him to draw the border between two villages, or settle a dispute or request some guards to clear out a few bandits. It all seemed the same, but he tried to be fair and just, like Father would. At the end of the day, he declared he would stop holding court and they could return tomorrow. He returned to the dining hall where his mother was, and they dined upon a thick stew of onions and beef and lemon water. At the end of the day, Hodor brought him back to his room and he prepared for rest, thinking about the morrow.


	10. The Wedding

Jon

Another two months had passed when they had taken Casterly Rock and it's weak garrison of three hundred along with Tommen Waters and Tywin Lannister, who had been preparing a levy to face him when they were caught unawares. With the war all but over, Jon returned east for his wedding to Margaery Tyrell. They had mustered an army of at least eighty thousand and were returning with five and seven thousand men behind them. The Tyrell men's camps were the loudest, with men jovially laughing and singing and praising the King and Queen to be.

 _I must do my duty to the realm. They would not have sworn to me unless I would marry her. But was it worth it,_ he wondered. He was drawn out of his thoughts by Robb pulling up next to him. "So, the proud king makes his way back, eh?" Robb japed, grinning at him. Jon tried to return the smile. "Well, this marriage wasn't my first choice, but perhaps I will come to love her, cousin." Robb grinned at him again. "Cousin. It feel so strange, after calling you brother all these years, eh?"

 _Indeed, Robb._ _Indeed._

Daenerys

Two exhausting months of moving along the sea on the three galleys later, her Dragons - and she, too - ached to fly, to enjoy a hunt. But sadly, with only the light blue above and the dark blue below the only thing there was to see, they were getting tired and bored. It was to her surprise when the captain came in one night and announced they were a day or two off Lys and would be stopping in port there. _Finally, I can stretch my legs once more._

They made port a day and a half later, though it took her a good part of the day to get used to walking again. Her dragons had to stay, lest they be captured or killed, but she got to roam the markets freely and hear the news. The news was not great, though. "I heard the new king, the dragon, has crushed the old lion to bits. Most of his army is in tatters and he's taken Casterly Rock. The war is all but over now, with Stannis disappeared to Dragonstone and the boy king, Tommen, in chains." Denerys stopped listening to him after that, as he changed the subject. She turned her attention to a boy with whitecolored hair and purple eyes talking with a gruff man who seemed quite stern. The boy was chattering away and she didn't catch much, as her focus finally turned to the final man. "I heard the dragon king has to marry the rose lady for their allegiance." The other man at his table countered with, "Well, I heard he has to marry the lady Arrielle or something like that, the Martell."

 _Hmm,_ she mused, _that can't be good._ She turned and left the tavern she had been eavesdropping in to find the sun starting to set, so she made her way back to the ship to find her dragons. She counted them carelessly, _One, two, th- wait, no… only two?_ Drogon was missing.

She turned to a nearby shiphand. "Where is he? WHERE IS MY DRAGON? If you have stolen him, I will feed you to my dragons. Speak!" She roared at him, fury in her eyes. The man stuttered, trying to deliver his answer. "N-no m'lady. He, he flew away. We tried to find you, but we couldn't." She seethed at him. "Then where did he fly off to, you dolt?" She cried, rage and fury in her ayes, blocking much of her sight. "He - he went north west. We tried to stop him, but he shrieked and burnt one of the oarsmans hand to a crisp!" She stopped and began to breathe heavily, trying to calm herself down. She breathed in and out for a few moments before she told him to get out of her sight.

Tyrion

He had arrived in Duskendale along his way with Bronn and another sellsword with him. He had met Bronn in an inn while he was travelling south and hired him as, ah, extra protection. He had turned out useful when they had been near the Vale and were attacked by a few roaming Clansmen. He had hired him fulltime for his journey south.

They arrived in King's Landing perhaps two days later to bend the knee. They found a castellan, and Barristan Selmy, to meet them. Selmy took him to a cell that was not all that bad, quite pleasant enough in truth, where he awaited this new king.

It did not take long. From his makeshift calendar carved with a spoon, seven days. The boy arrived back at the head of a mighty host indeed, and the Imp had been taken out to parade in front of this demure lad.

"So you're the Imp, hm? Well, you're about what I expected. Tell me, Tyrion of House Lannister, how did you get arrested?" The lad asked, looking at him with his eyes that had a hint of purple in them, as well as a sadness.

"Well, King Jon, I gave myself willingly to your rotund castellan and the lord commander of your kingsguard. I found I would rather not have my head, or worse, my cock chopped off, and I was hoping to bend my knee to you and swear fealty and the like." He replied with a grin coming afterwards.

The young fellow thought for a moment. "Very well, Tyrion Lannister. You will be made Paramount of the Westerlands, so long as you bend your knee and give me a hostage." He then looked at him with those steely eyes. _Just like his fathers,_ he mused, _though these eyes are alive._

"Yes, well, I believe with my brother killed in the commotion, the only family member I have any love for is in your possession - no, not my father, my nephew twice over. Bastard though he may be, I do love him. So keep him as a hostage, ser, and get on with it." He felt small in this room, in front of this tall gangly lad who looked on from that great, crooked throne of his.

"Very well, Tyrion Lannister. Rise as Lord Paramount of the West." He rose what little he could and grinned. _Thank the gods for that boy,_ he thought to himself.

Jon

The feast was a grand thing, with seven courses for the seven gods of the south. His soon to be lady wife was at least attractive, and sweet too, though this wedding was a bit off. Still, all would be well when the wedding was done. He had heard _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ at least four times now, but it was a good alternative to the gloomy Rains of Castamere or The Dornishman's Wife. He turned to take in the maid before him, who was shortly to be his wife once the bedding had come and gone. She was a fair girl, with a sweet face, doe eyes and a slender but shapely figure. That, at least, was good. After the third course he could not eat a bite more for fear of bursting like an overripe berry. His lady wife turned to him and noted this. "Jon, is something wrong? You have not touched a bite more, my dear." He turned to her and gave her a wan smile. "It's alright, Lady Margaery, I'm just stuffed." She smiled ad moved in for a kiss, and he decided to give in. _I'm going to be married to her anyways, so why not?_ He moved in and their lips locked in an embrace for a few moments before they pulled away. He grinned at her and took a sip of his wine.

The gifts for the individual had already been received. Jon had gotten an excellent crown, a book of Targaryen Reigns, a cloak sewed with the Targaryen sigil in the middle and a fine chalice with seven rubies. Margaery had received a fine gown of Myrish lace, a crown for herself with ruby dragons and pyrite roses, and a finely made riding cloak.

The gifts for the both of them, Jon had paid little attention to, instead looking at the joy around him. He was quite happy now, and buzzing from the wine he had almost quaffed, as Robb described it. Then the crowd began to chant. "Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!" Jon looked up with a grimace and got up alongside his lady wife. She was taken off by Robb, Loras, the Greatjon Umber, Oberyn Martell and another fellow he didn't recognize.

He was picked up by the ladies of the feast and stripped down to a single sock by the time he got to the bedchamber. They placed him and her on the bed, made a few more jests, and left, with one of them closing the respective doors behind them. He laid upon the bed and took in Margaery's curves before getting up and pouring himself some water to calm his nerves. He took a good swig and returned to the great bed to find her waiting for him. She smiled at him and beckoned him. He could feel the swelling down there and she glanced down with a smile. She pointed to him where to go, and he entered her. truly uniting the bride and groom as a couple.

Later that night, after the bedding done, he left with a cloak on and little else to stand upon the balcony and breathe some cool air. He heard a shriek and a flap of wings, and suddenly a black dragon the size of a large dog landed in front of him. "Oh my," Was all Jon could say.


End file.
